


Lucky

by legoline



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legoline/pseuds/legoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's heard that the doctor snatches boys away from their family. So when Dean gets sick, he retreats to desperate measures--and runs away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the insanely talented and sweet Animotus who, a while ago, asked for a fic in which wee!Dean gets sick and is afraid of the doctor.

He probably should have noticed Dean's pale cheeks earlier. No, he definitely should have. His pale cheeks and his loss of appetite. He should have noticed that when Dean coughed, his chest sounded tight--worse than an ordinary cold that could be fixed with a bit of cough syrup and drops. But shit, he'd been too busy with reading up on poltergeists and malvolent spirits, had just dipped his feet into this new life and learned that there were such things as hunters and thousands of different creatures that just four years ago he'd believed to be fables... Scary tales to frighten children so they wouldn't sneak out of bed. He'd been to his first few hunts just two months ago, and he was so busy with keeping an eye on the newspapers and reading books and trying to form contacts with suppliers of ammo and fake IDs. Plus there was Sammy, barely four years old and always getting into trouble.

Dean was remarkably responsible for his eight years, and John didn't always need to keep an eye on him. That night, when Dean's cough got so bad it woke John in the living room and he cradled Dean, who was coughing and retching because phlegm was stuck in his lungs or chest or God knows where, John realised just how much he'd failed at making sure Dean was just as safe as Sammy.

Dean was crying silently, his face pressed against John's chest with John's hand at the back of his son's head. Dean was incredibly brave, probably more than John was, and determined to bear all pain in silence. He never complained, never whined, just acknowledged matters with a nod and a look in his eyes as if he'd learned to accept things because he knew he couldn't change them. He was too old for his eight years, too quiet and serious. He should have been outside playing soccer with kids his own age. Instead, he spent all his time watching out for Sammy or keeping around his dad. John was proud that he could count on Dean like that, but the pride was tainted with bitterness.

When Dean coughed again, his hands turned to fists and his forehead pressed into John's shirt. His small body shivered as he struggled for air and John felt like he didn't deserve that kid, didn't deserve any kids. Dean needed Mary, and Sammy needed Mary. Not him. Not an ex-marine who couldn't even make sure his kid was healthy.

”We're going to a doctor tomorrow, okay?” John said. “It's all gonna be okay.” He tried to be soft and gentle and wasn't sure his voice sounded right. He half expected a nod coming from Dean, but Dean didn't react at all. He coughed again, wiping a tear from his eye.

Somehow Sammy had managed to sleep through the ruckus that Dean was producing. He always slept that sound, and John envied him for that. Sam felt that he was safe. John and Dean knew they weren't. He ran his fingers through Dean's hair. Dean tensed briefly under the touch, before he relaxed again. John's stomach cramped. He'd screwed up so much.

***  
Dean opened his eyes and Dad was there. Dad's arm was around him and that was weird, like really weird, because he wasn't Sammy. Dean wondered whether Daddy had come in at night and gone to the wrong bed or something. Maybe Sammy had been crying and Dad had come in to tell him everything was fine and he'd mixed up things. 'Cause Dean wasn't Sammy.

Dean turned his head and saw that Sammy was still asleep in his bed. Sunbeams were flowing in through the blinds. There was light now. Dad had to see that Sammy was over there and—out of nowhere, Dean's throat closed up. It felt like something icky was glued to his lungs, making it hard to breath. Dean coughed, and tried to swallow the icky stuff down, but it wouldn't work. He couldn't breathe. He coughed again, but he still couldn't breathe. He thought he was going to breathe no more. He wanted to struggle free of Dad's grasp, but suddenly Dad's hand only pulled him tighter. He hadn't known Dad had even been awake. Dad patted his back, like really fast, and then it was over and he swallowed the icky stuff down. Air floated into his throat and Dean gasped for it eagerly. He sunk back into the pillows, tired.

“I'm gonna go call the doctor, Dean. Stay here, alright? If you need anything, call me.”

He heard the brush of air as Dad left the room, and Dean's eyes snapped open again. Doctor? Dean shivered, and his chest felt suddenly tight again, but not from the icky stuff. There'd been this boy at school, Peter, and he'd been ill and then one day he'd stayed away and the teacher had said he'd gone to see the doctor and nobody had ever seen him again. Some of the kids at school said that the doctor had sent Peter to a hospital and the hospital had kept Peter. Dean's heartbeat doubled. He couldn't go to the doctor. He didn't want to be taken away from Dad and Sammy.

Maybe Dad thought he didn't take enough care of Sammy? Or maybe Dad didn't know the doctors kept the children there. Dean swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and leaped to his feet. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other because the floor was so cold. He couldn't go to the doctor. He didn't want to. All of a sudden, he felt very hot. Maybe he could run away until he stopped coughing, and then he could come back and Dad wouldn't think he needed to go to the doctor anymore? Dean nodded. Dad would see that he didn't need to call the doctor.

His shoes were behind the door, so Dean grabbed them and put them on. He wasn't sure whether or not he was supposed to put on pants and a sweater, but he needed to be quick before Dad came back and took him away.

“Dean?”

Dean turned around. Sammy was awake and looking at him with his hair all wild and like that time when the flower-woman had seen him and squeaked and said he needed a comb. Sam rubbed his eyes. His cheeks were really red.

“Don't worry,” Dean said quickly. “I’ll be back soon.”

Sammy said something but Dean had already snuck out of the door and into the kitchen. Dad was on the phone talking and saying something about _emerchanzee_ , and Dean didn't know what _emerchanzee_ was but it didn't sound good. His chest felt tight again all of a sudden, and Dean covered his mouth with his hand quickly, suppressing a cough so Dad wouldn't hear him. He opened the door silently and closed it just as quietly, before he began to run.

***  
Dean had sounded far from okay, and by morning John was certain that Dean needed a doctor and if the doctor were too busy with too many patients, that John would take Dean straight to the hospital. That cough sounded pretty bad, and by now John had a feeling that Dean might have come down with bronchitis. He needed to get his boy dressed and then take him to the doctor as fast as possible.

He pushed the door to the boys' room open and stopped frozen. Dean wasn't there. The sheets of the bed greeted him, all crinkled and in folds, but Dean was gone. From the other bed, Sammy shot him a bewildered glance.

“Sammy,” John asked, “Where's Dean?”

“He says he'll be back,” Sammy replied. He seemed upset.

“Back from where?” John turned around. Maybe Dean had gone to the bathroom or...

“Dunno.” Sam shrugged. “Is Dean in trouble?” he asked quietly.

“What?” John shook his head. “No, no, he's not. He just needs to see the doctor.”

Dean wasn't in the house. Not in the basement, not in the attic, nowhere in the living room or kitchen or the closet in John's bedroom. Dean was gone. His shoes were missing.

John picked up the phone to call the police three times, but always hung up before anyone at the other end of the line could pick up. If the police came here and found John's books about demons and ghosts, and if they thought Dean had run away because “home” was such a bad place, then John would never see both his sons again. Ever. The police were bound to draw the wrong conclusion, and John couldn't risk it. He had to find Dean, but he had no idea where to begin. The idea of his sick child running around somewhere in the cold had created a barrier in his mind, and he couldn't come up with a straight thought.

House. The garden. Maybe Dean was somewhere around the house. Shit, please, he had to be somewhere around the house.

“Sammy, you've got to help me find Dean, okay?” He couldn't leave Sammy all by himself in the house. Last thing he needed was Sam hurting himself somehow while John was out looking for Dean. Sammy nodded obediently. He was scared. Well, that made two of them.

“Nothing bad is going to happen,” John said. “Just...we need to find Dean okay? Can you help me?”

Sammy, barely four years old, nodded with a determination that, despite the situation, put a smile on John's face. “That's my boy.”

Sammy tended to make a fuss when getting dressed, declaring that he didn't want to wear what Dad had picked out. This time though, he wordlessly put on everything that John handed him. He helped pulling the sweater over Sammy's head and with the button of his jeans and then tying his shoelaces. Sammy, who usually tried to interfere with these measures claiming that he could do it on his own, which he couldn't, accepted the help willingly this time. It was almost as if he instinctively knew that there was no time for quarrels.

“Okay, ready?” John asked, holding out the jacket and Sam slipped in.

Sammy nodded emphatically. “Yes.”

“Then let's go.”

He held out his hand and Sammy grabbed it, his small fingers curling around John's. He didn't deserve these kids. He really didn't.

Winter had come early that year, and while thr ground wasn't yet frozen as John stepped on it, the sharp wind racing past him made him shiver. As far as he could tell, Dean only had his pajamas on. John wore a sweater and his leather jacket and still thought it was freezing. They had to find Dean fast, before...before...

“Dean!” John called. The wind carried his voice over the fields that stretched onto the horizon behind the house. Their temporary home was the last house on that street, with nothing else around. It had been cheap because it neighboured to such an isolated patch of fields, small forests and meadows. At least there were barely cars here. On the other hand, they'd heard about black bears coming near farmhouses every now and then...John shook his head and told himself to not think about that. It didn't help.

“Dean!” he called again and then Sammy's high voice chimed in, “Dean? Where are you?”

John listened, listened to every tiny small noise coming from around him, but Dean didn't answer. Either Dean didn't hear him or he ignored him. John didn't dare to think of the third possibility.

They began looking around the house, but Dean remained missing.

***  
The coughing hurt more and more. It felt like needles in his chest when he coughed or when he breathed, and when he got another coughing fit it felt like his lungs were filled with icky stuff again, only it got worse with each time. Dean folded up his knees and rested his forehead on them. He was tired. Really tired.

It was cold up here, like really mean cold. Dean hadn't thought that it could ever get this cold. It was worse than that one time when they'd been at Uncle Bobby's place and there'd been that woman, and she'd taken them ice-skating.

His fingers were all red, and he couldn't feel them anymore, not really. He was crouched in the corner with the wind blowing through gaps in between the planks, and he shivered. His throat closed up again as he coughed and his chest hurt so much, and then he started crying even though he was too big to cry. Tears spilled down his cheeks and he sniffed, then wiped them away. As he did, another wave of coughs came over him and he eased down on the floor until he was all curled up and the cold planks beneath him made his left side numb.

He wondered if Sammy was okay, and if Dad had already tried to find a new big brother for Sammy, a better one that didn't get sick easily and could always look after him. Tears piled up inside of him again at the thought that Sammy might get a new big brother, and that maybe there would be no room for Dean anymore once he felt better. The cough had to go away if he just waited long enough.

He wanted to go home. He didn't like it here, and he was scared. There was no one around and Susie Parker had said at school that the black bears ate children if they found them. Dean closed his eyes and curled his hands to fists. They hurt so much.

After a while, he got hungry, and thirsty. But there was nothing to eat here, and nothing to drink. He remained curled up on the floor for a moment before he thought that maybe, he could just go and see if he could find something to eat. As long as he stayed out of sight from their house...

His tummy hurt, he was that hungry, and his throat was all scratchy and dry. But he felt so vey tired. He tried to sit up, but his arms wouldn't really support his weight, they were all wobbly and stuff, and so Dean eased back on the floor. The coughs returned. Bad ones. Dean retched and rolled over, trying to spit out the icky stuff, but it stuck to his lungs and Dean sucked in air greedily. Even after the coughs ebbed away, his chest still hurt and his throat felt like there was glue all over it. Dean closed his eyes. Maybe he would be better after he'd slept a little. Uncle Bobby said that sleep was the best medicine.

***  
John wiped sweat from his brow and looked up. Sammy, still clinging to his hand, bit his lip and glanced up to him.

“Dean is sick?” Sammy asked. It was half question, half statement.

“Yeah, Sammy. That's why he needs to go to the doctor.”

”Dean doesn't like the doctor,” Sammy declared. “They take boys away from home, he says.”

“Is that what he told you?”

Sammy shrugged, and everything fell into place. Well, not everything, like for example why Dean would think something like that but regardless, if he thought that doctors took kids away from their homes that explained why Dean might have run away. Shit, John should have listened. Because he would bet his ass now that Dean once told him or tried to tell him and John just hadn't listened, had probably been too busy with other stuff.

“Do you know where he could be?”

“Doctors don't take boys away from home.”

“No, they don't.”

Sammy put his free hand in the pocket of his trousers. He was wearing a white knitted beanie, and the tip of his nose was red from the cold. It was hard to imagine that the boy here was the baby John had saved from the crib and placed into Dean's arms not even four years ago. Sammy had grown so fast and shit, how he wished Mary could have seen him. With his dark hair and puppy eyes, he drew the attention of elderly women wherever they went and Sammy was constantly in danger of having his cheeks pinched. Dean was growing up fast too.

“Do you know where Dean could be?”

Sammy frowned, thinking. Then suddenly, he let go of John's hand and started running, towards a small group of trees that braved the elements in the distance.

“I know, I know!” he yelled and John called after him to slow down and wait, but Sammy kept on running, his hair flying wild. He was heading straight for the small forest, his bright red jacket shining against the cloud-hung sky. John caught up with him easy enough, but with unspoiled energy Sammy kept running, running, running, until the first trees rose up before them.

The leaves had fallen a few weeks ago, and John wondered now why he hadn't noticed the little square that towered above him in one of the treetops, a little room that was half hidden behind the branches of the trees around him. A tree house. An old, battered tree house.

John stopped. Sam halted next to him, glancing at him with a smile, pointing to the tree house with his index finger.

“Dean likes the tree house,” Sammy said. “But I'm not allowed up.”

John's heart bumped against his chest so loudly that all neighbours within a three-mile radius were probably hearing it. Unconsciously, he held his breath. If Dean was up there...oh shit, he had to be up there. Well and okay, and breathing and...

“Dean?” John called. His voice sounded like his dad's. Different. Raspy.

No reply.

“Dean, are you there?”

Stillness answered. John turned to Sammy, whose eyes had grown wide again. He put his hand on Sammy's shoulder, squeezed it lightly. “Stay here, okay? I'm gonna check if Dean's up there.”

Sammy nodded, and John reached for the rope ladder. He climbed it up quickly, going as fast as he could. When he was halfway up, Sammy's voice resounded from below, “Dean!” Then, John heard a cough from inside the tree house. Someone inside stirred. Within two seconds, John pulled himself into the little square room.

On his knees, he skimmed the dim lit tree house frantically. There were holes in the planks, and the floor seemed rotten. The room smelled like mildew. In a corner, huddled, lay Dean. A small bundle, clad in pajamas, hair tousled and skin white, eyes dark and circled. Lips blue. He looked at John like a wounded animal that was cornered with no way out. He shivered, frozen, awaiting the worst. As John moved forward, Dean ducked. His shoulders jerked upward.

“Dean...,” John said, reaching out. “Dean, are you okay?”

Dean sniffed, then offered a silent nod. He was pale. Too pale. He needed to get somewhere warm quickly, a voice in John's head urged him, he'd been out in the cold way too long. He crawled forward and Dean visibly shrunk in size, trying to turn into a tiny square bundle that could be overlooked.

“I know you're scared of the doctor,” John tried. There was a better way to do this, a better way to show Dean he needn't be afraid, but John didn't know it. Mary would have known. Him? Most of the days he didn't even know the right way to ask an eight-year old about what he wanted to have for lunch. “But you have to go. You're sick, Dean.”

With the heart of a soldier, Dean shook his head. His eyes were glassy, more distant than they should have been. He was running a fever. Suddenly Dean's body convulsed and his hand yanked up to his mouth, trying to suppress the cough that was tearing him up inside. John saw his boy on the rotten floor of the tree house, pale and cold and in pajamas, and suddenly knew what he had to do. He crossed the remaining distance, wrapped his arms around Dean and pulled him close. Dean tensed up as John gathered him in his arms, stiffened at the gesture, but sunk into the embrace a moment later. The fabric of the pajamas felt frozen under John's fingers, Dean's skin cold. John could feel his son's heart beating too fast, too shallow. Dean's grip on John's shirt was weak, he was barely holding on.

“Dean,” John said, putting his hand on the back of Dean's head. “Sammy's down there waiting for you. You need to come down.”

Out of nowhere, Dean burst into tears, helpless sobs that shook his entire body. “Please don't make me go to the doctor,” he cried. Sobbed. Begged. “'M gonna be fine, I promise. I can take care of Sammy. I promise. I promise...”

John let his hand slide from Dean's head to his neck, pressing his son against his chest a little more. Damn him if he was ever gonna let the kid go again...only he would have to.

“I know, Dean. I know and you're doin' a real good job. But you're sick, and the doctor will help you.”

Dean sobbed. “You don't need to give me away, Daddy.”

John's throat closed up, and he hoped that Mary, wherever she might be, hadn't heard her son's desperate plea. His stomach spun upside down, cramped. He wasn't sure he could look anyone in the eye ever again. His own son thought John would give him away because he hadn't looked after his brother well enough.

“I wouldn't ever do that, okay? Dean. No one's ever going to take you away. I'll be there all the time with you. I promise. I won't let them take you away.”

Something told him that explaining to Dean how doctors didn't snatch children away wouldn’t have been any good now. Maybe he'd learned that one from watching Mary handle the boys. He could explain it later, but right now he had a feeling Dean just needed to hear he was safe, and would be.

Finally, Dean nodded. He wrapped his arms around John's neck. “Okay.”

John smiled. Everything would be--

Dean started coughing, and it was worse than anything John had ever heard before. A deep, throaty coughing, originating from somewhere deep in Dean's chest. In his arms, Dean's convulsed, tried to turn over, gagged. He gasped for air that wouldn't come and John held him, tried to ease im through it, but it wouldn't help this time. Dean coughed like he was going to throw up his insides only the coughs got stuck in his lungs, lungs that seemed to be filled with something, and then, Dean's eyes rolled backwards and he went very, very still. John screamed.

***  
Dean was half awake under the oxygen mask, his eyes wide and searching for his dad and Sammy. The EMTs where trying to push John aside.  
“He needs to see me!” he yelled. Sammy stood next to him, face lined with fear. “I promised him I'd be there!”  
He would keep his promise. He'd screwed up so much, but he was going to keep this promise.

***  
“You can't go in there!” the doctor said and John knew he had his reasons, perfectly good ones, but under these circumstances, he could have cared less. He stormed in with the gurney that carried his son, and insisted on staying. He thought they were going to have him removed when he threatened the doctor with throwing punches but to John's surprise the doctor caved and allowed him to stay. John kept to the wall where Dean could see him. A nurse came in and took Sammy out. Sammy didn't have to see this, John agreed, grateful for her help.

***  
Pneumonia. Fucking pneumonia. Or, bronchitis that had turned into a mild pneumonia. Mild one, the doctor had said, and Dean would be okay. He had been hypothermic too, but that had been taken care of. He was a healthy kid, the doctor had said, and luckily the pneumonia had been discovered in an early state. But John knew that if he'd read the signs, if he'd paid more attention to Dean, it would've been a bad case of bronchitis, not ever pneumonia.

Dean needed to stay in hospital for a few days, they told him. They suggested that he should go home and get some sleep. No, John said, he'd promised to stay with his son all the way. Dean was scared of doctors.

What about your other son? John wrapped his arm around tighter around Sam, who'd fallen asleep on his lap.

“H goes wherever his brother goes,” John replied. “And he wouldn't leave here without him.”

***  
When he woke, and everything smelled different and there were a lot of voices from behind a door that sounded all strange, Dean thought for a brief moment that the doctors had made Dad give him away, and that he wouldn't ever see Dad or Sammy again. His stomach cramped and his breath hitched and pain shot from his chest to his throat. It hurt, like really bad. He winced, and took a deep breath and that too hurt. He felt cold and alone, and he didn't want to be alone, he wanted to be home with Sammy and Dad and not here and--

“Dean.” There was Dad's voice, and it made everything better. Dean opened his eyes. Everything was kind of blurry at first, but then everything became clearer and he could see Dad sitting on a chair by the bed and Sammy was on his lap asleep and then Dean knew that Dad had kept his promise.

“You're really sick, Dean.” Dad said. He sounded odd. Like he was talking to Sammy. All worried.

“But you'll be fine. You're gonna have to stay here for a few days, though.” Dean's heart leaped into his mouth. Here? Alone? Then the doctors could snatch him away, and Dad wouldn't know, not ever, what happened to him and--

“Don't worry, Dean. We're not going anywhere without you. We'll stay here.” Dad paused like he didn't really know what to say next. “You just get better, alright?”

Dean nodded. He felt really tired. And Dad wasn't going to let anyone take him away, and Sammy was there and Dad was taking care of him, so maybe sleep would be okay...

***  
Sam's breath was hot against his skin, steady and peaceful. Sammy's cheeks were flushed, his skin warm with sleep. He was slouched against John's torso, cradled by John's arms.

Sammy was getting heavier almost daily, but right now his weight wasn't a burden, rather a pleasant assurance that at least one of his sons was safe and protected. Sammy had fallen asleep shortly after the nurse had brought him to the room. He'd glanced at Dean in the hospital bed for a moment, green blanket reaching up to Dean's chest, but when John had told him that Dean was just tired and would be fine, Sammy had climbed up on John's lap and had dozed off almost instantly. Amazing, John thought, that both Dean and Sammy trusted his words even though he had screwed up so fucking much.

Dean was asleep, his head lolled to the side so that he was facing John. His features were slack in sleep, relaxed in the knowledge that his dad would watch over him. His breath was still a rattle, and the doctor had warned him that if things got worse, they might have to put Dean on a ventilator for a while. So far Dean was holding his own without help though, and John had never doubted that he would. Hearing Dean's laboured breath wasn't a pleasant sound, it was far from it actually, but it was so, so much better than the coughs up in the tree house, those violent fits that had almost choked his son to death.

Sammy stirred, blinked sleepily and, upon finding Dean was still asleep and well, closed his eyes again.

“Dean is not going away, is he?” he slurred.

“No,” John replied, voice suddenly thick. “He's not going anywhere without you.“

Satisfied, Sammy dozed off again. John kissed the top of Sam's head briefly. Unlike Dean, Sam didn't tense up under the intimate gesture. John sighed, his eyes still on Dean.

He looked so impossibly small in the bed, small and helpless. He didn't even dare to think about how things may have turned out.

He knew he'd fucked up. You knew you'd fucked up when your kid was scared you'd give him away at the first sign of weakness. You knew you'd fucked up when you ignored your son's cough long enough that it turned into pneumonia. You knew you'd fucked up when your kid was terrified of doctors and had a tree house and you knew about neither.

You knew you'd fucked up when you were making promises to yourself that everything would be better from now on, that you'd pay more attention and listen well and be there for your kids, knowing that you'd break those promises sooner rather than later. Too much had happened, too much that could not be undone and John knew that even if he meant every single word now, he'd still be out there hunting ghosts tomorrow instead of being home with his boys. He was fucked up, a son of a bitch, someone who by rights shouldn't even have kids, and he knew it. Bobby knew it. Pastor Jim knew it.

He loved his boys, loved them more than anything else in the world. But that couldn't change who he was and what he would do.

“Mary, I'm gonna screw this up,” he'd said when Mary had told him she was pregnant with Dean.

“Nonsense,” she'd replied. “You'll be a wonderful Dad.”

As it turned out, he'd been right.

Sammy was lucky to have Dean. John was lucky that Sammy had Dean. Dean was lucky to have Sam. Neither of them was lucky because they had John.

He'd been an awful dad, and the future wasn't going to look much brighter. He'd continue to screw up, no matter how hard he'd try not to. Dean though? John didn't know when it would happen, but he was sure that one day Dean would have kids of his own, and he'd be a much better dad than John had ever been. Dean was Mary's son more than he was John's, and it showed everytime Dean instinctively knew when to be worried and when to offer comfort. Mostly though, Dean was always there when he was needed. And he was only eight years old.

“You're so lucky,” John whispered, his mouth near Sammy's ears. “Cause even when I can't be around, Dean will never leave you. Never.”

***  
That night, for the first time in over three years, Dean's sleep was dreamless. For the first time in over three years, he wasn't afraid to fall asleep. Dean slept and it was okay. Dad was there. Dad wasn't going anywhere. Sammy was there too. That night, Dean slept safe and sound.

 

-end-


End file.
